


starlight; star-crossed

by julek



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff and Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Winter At Kaer Morhen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:34:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29389194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julek/pseuds/julek
Summary: “What the fuck, Jaskier?” Geralt stares, dumbfounded, at the giant dog currently sitting by Jaskier’s feet— no, on his foot, wagging its tail while innocently tilting its head. “Why— How— What are you doing with a fucking wild dog in here?”Or, Geralt’s winter adventures with Jaskier — and his new pet.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 24
Kudos: 359
Collections: Sugar and Spice Witcher Bingo





	starlight; star-crossed

The cold seeps through Geralt’s gloves, the leather worn and the stitches half-torn already. He puts the hammer aside and rubs his hands together, the sun dipping lower and lower into the mountains behind him, marking the end of his shift — from sunrise to sundown, Vesemir had said, and Geralt intends on leaving the torn-up walls and cement behind as soon as the first star shows up in the sky, the shimmering sun still setting. 

He makes his way down the courtyard and past the paddocks, the ground lightly covered in white snowflakes from the snow shower that had taken them all by surprise early in the morning. The days are getting chillier and the winds are changing, and Geralt figures the storm will be coming soon, thus covering the pass for good and keeping them locked in the fortress, nothing but trees and mountains to keep them company. 

He had finally gathered up the courage —both liquid and spiritual— to invite Jaskier up for winter, and, to his relief, the bard’s face had split into a joyful grin and he’d suddenly been faced with an armful of Jaskier, his body warm around him and nothing in his scent but pure happiness. They’d been slowly making their way up the mountain, slower than Geralt favored, just to make sure they got all the necessary supplies in stock, and, even if Geralt wouldn’t admit it, to keep a close eye on Jaskier, make sure the bard wasn’t exerting himself more than he could handle. 

It had been a few decades since he’d brought a human to Kaer Morhen, and despite Jaskier’s assurances, Geralt knew it was not an easy trail to follow. He made sure Jaskier had everything he could need on the path: a heavy fur cloak draped over his shoulders, woolen gloves and high leather boots lined with ram fur, the best all his coin could buy. When the path got treacherous, Geralt insisted on Jaskier getting on Roach — she knew the road better than anyone, he argued, and tried his best to ignore the fond and grateful smile Jaskier sent his way, frozen fingers holding onto the mare’s reins.

Now, four weeks after their arrival at the crumbling keep, they haven’t seen much of each other, not as much as Geralt would’ve liked. He had planned to spend time with Jaskier, now that no monsters called him to duty and no coin had to be sung for — he had intended on showing this side of himself, the one he rarely ever let anyone see; he _wanted_ to be vulnerable for Jaskier, to allow his feelings for the bard to take up space in his mind and in his heart as the winter closed in, but it seemed the oldest Witcher had other plans. Vesemir had been what he called liberal with their chores —meaning they had to work most of the day, every day— and he had been pleased to realize that, this winter, he had an extra set of hands to put to work. Jaskier had eagerly accepted, committed to pulling his weight and earning his stay, and took to his chores with vigor, which meant that, by the time supper was ready, he’d be exhausted down to his bones, and could barely stay awake for the main course. 

Having him at his home, inside the walls that watched Geralt grow and change throughout the years, was a pleasing sight. Watching Jaskier slowly but surely make his way through the keep, winning everyone’s minds and fixing a path into their hearts as well made Geralt’s chest seize with pride, that small part of him that still wished for his family’s approval of his travel companion jumping in excitement every time his brother laughed at Jaskier’s antics, every time Vesemir’s eyebrows shot up in amusement at his stories. The sweat and grime that perpetually clinged to the bard’s face and hands as they passed each other in the hallways in-between chores had grown familiar — a routine Geralt could definitely get used to, the stolen glances and easy smiles igniting something in his chest. 

Geralt pushes the kitchen door open with one shoulder and is welcomed by the lovely warmth of the fireplace, light spilling from the burning logs. Sinking his hands into the water that had been warmed by the hearth Geralt sighs, his numb fingers coming back to life as he washes off the dust and cement still stuck to his palms. The kitchen is oddly quiet — the others must have finished early and gone straight into the bath house for a soak before dinner, he reasons. He dries his hands on a cloth and settles on the rug by the fire, stretching his legs before him and allowing the warmth to seep into his bones. 

The quietude is calming and he thinks he could slip into a meditative state just like that, with the crackling fire and the sound of the wind howling outside. He rests his hands on his knees and he’s about to close his eyes when a loud noise makes him jerk awake, the sound of rattling and kicking followed by a string of colorful curses which could only belong to a certain colorful bard. 

“Shit, wait— stay still, would you,” Jaskier’s voice warns as he flings the door open, “what did I _just_ say about manners?” 

Geralt frowns and turns to see just what Jaskier is dealing with at the moment, and for a second he’s struck by the thought of Jaskier trying to get Roach inside — he had attempted it a few times, much to Vesemir’s disapproval, so Geralt’s right to be cautious. He stands tall and walks over to the kitchen, where he’s met by the sight of a rosy-cheeked Jaskier and, next to him...

“What the fuck, Jaskier?” Geralt stares, dumbfounded, at the giant dog currently sitting by Jaskier’s feet— no, _on_ his foot, wagging its tail while innocently tilting its head. “Why— How— What are you doing with a fucking _wild dog_ in here?” 

The dog —although Geralt would refrain from calling it that, given its size and devilishly gigantic teeth— sniffs the air, seemingly unbothered by Geralt’s bewilderment. Its fur is a rich brown, something akin to Roach’s coat (though Geralt would never, ever admit any resemblance) and it’s frizzed at the edges, half-wet and remarkably clean-looking. It has a splotch of white around its left eye, the blue one, and the green one has a white line of fur going through it, almost like a scar. It looks mysterious and mythical and Geralt _hates_ it. 

Jaskier, the bastard, grins widely. “It’s a puppy!” He bends and pats the clearly adult-sized dog on the head, scratching its ears. “He kept me company while I was feeding the horses— poor thing, he looked _awfully_ lonely! I just couldn’t say no to him.”

Geralt’s frown deepens. “Couldn’t say no to what, exactly.”

“Geralt!” Jaskier protests. “I gave him some treats after I’d cleaned Roach’s stall, and— oh, Geralt, you should’ve seen him, the way he slowly came up to me, all dirty and shivering from the cold, with the saddest look in his eyes, which simply _begged_ for some love and attention.”

Geralt watches the dog’s movements, his fur coat thick and shiny, and narrows his eyes suspiciously. The dog looks back at him, and Geralt could swear he’s smirking.

“It’s a wild thing, Jaskier,” he says, and he hates that it comes out as a plea, as if he already knows there’s no fighting the bard on this. “They’re dangerous. Carnivorous. It won’t hesitate to bite your leg off if it’s hungry. They’re not household pets.”

The dog looks at Geralt dead in the eye, his hackles rising and his mouth curled into a snarl. Then, only a second later, he looks up at Jaskier, pulling his ears back and making those stupid puppy-dog eyes Geralt can’t believe Jaskier falls for. Jaskier kneels beside him, and, much to Geralt’s disbelief, the dog innocuously licks a stripe up Jaskier’s face, earning himself a surprised laugh and some loving scratches from the bard. 

“Who’s a good boy?” Jaskier coos, completely and utterly besotted with that horrible, wretched thing. In response, the dog shows him his belly. “Ooh, who’s the best boy in this entire Continent? It’s you! Geralt, please, how can you look at this—” he gestures at the dog, whose tongue is sticking out endearingly “—and call him _dangerous_? He’s a puppy!”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “He’s a menace.”

“Oh.” Suddenly Jaskier’s face lights up, and he rubs at the dog’s chest with enthusiasm. “Oh, that’s a good name! D’you like it, _Menace_?” The dog barks excitedly. “Who’s the most dangerous menace in the Continent? You are!” 

Watching the bard roll around on the cold stone floors with a dog brought out straight from the wilderness is such an endearing sight that Geralt has to force himself to focus. He says, in a voice that he hopes is authoritative and begs no question, “He’s not staying.” 

But Jaskier’s gone, far more interested in making eyes at the hideous thing and getting wet, slobbery kisses in return than holding a conversation with the Witcher, instead cooing and petting the dog like it’s his firstborn child. Geralt sighs, defeated.

“It’s your responsibility,” he says after a moment. “You’ll look and clean after it, and you will make sure he doesn’t break anything or _kill_ anyone. And you’ll tell Vesemir about this. Not me.”

Oh, he can’t wait to see Vesemir’s reaction. Wild dogs are a permanent threat to the grounds, sneaking in into the chicken coop at night and snatching a few, enough to decimate them to half a dozen. Besides, Vesemir does not take in strays, except for the time in which stray children were the sole inhabitants of Kaer Morhen, centuries ago. Whatever creature Vesemir’s ever decided to adopt has had a clear purpose: ravens to keep the grounds free of vermin and owls to manage the rat population, a small flock of sheep for their wool and a single cow to milk daily. Never wild dogs — they are dirty, and loud, and _wild_ , for fuck’s sake, and Geralt knows there’s not a chance in hell Vesemir will allow Jaskier’s to stay.

“Yes, yes, definitely!” Jaskier nods, still looking at the dog. “I’ll take care of everything— oh, this will be so fun! We’ll be the best of friends, won’t we, Menace?”

As if on cue, the dog locks eyes with Geralt, and right now he’s _certain_ the dog is smirking at him, a smug look on his face that says _I’ve won_. He frowns.

“What’s more,” Jaskier continues, gently petting the dog’s paws, “I’ll train him. He’ll behave so well, you won’t even know he’s here.”

Something tells Geralt the opposite.

§

  
  


“And what do we have here?” Vesemir says the next morning, coming in from the frozen outdoors with firewood in both arms. 

Menace had come down to breakfast with Jaskier, who had much too willingly shared his bread and fruit with the mutt. 

“It’s a menace!” Jaskier says gleefully, and the dog perks up at the mention of his name. “I found him yesterday roaming the grounds. Hasn’t left my side since.” 

Geralt glances at Vesemir, who has set the firewood aside and is now carefully approaching the dog. The old Witcher’s expression is unreadable, but Geralt is confident that the poor excuse of a dog will be out and gone in the next five minutes. 

Vesemir crouches down next to Menace, giving him a once-over. He reaches with a gloved hand and smoothes the fur over the dog’s head, who purrs sweetly and tries to lick at Vesemir’s hand. Geralt watches as Jaskier nervously chews on his bottom lip, his shoulders tense. 

“Hmm,” Vesemir observes, tilting his head and subtly sniffing the air. The dog looks relaxed, having no qualms over the newcomer. “A wild dog, bard?”

Jaskier gives a choked laugh. “Yeah, um— he followed me around yesterday, and the poor thing looked so exhausted and cold, I gave him some food. Nothing big!” His eyes are wide and the scent of his anxiety fills the room. “Just, um, some jerky. He’s behaved perfectly so far! Right, Geralt?” He doesn’t wait for a response, instead meets Vesemir’s gaze with a smile. “And I was, uh, hoping to maybe, if it wouldn’t be much trouble, to, um, keep him?”

Vesemir narrows his eyes. 

“Maybe?” Jaskier says, his voice small, and suddenly Geralt wants to step in, sink to his knees and plead for the damned dog to stay, if it means Jaskier’s voice never has to sound broken and unsure. 

He’s fucked. It’s okay. He knows.

Vesemir sits down slowly, drawing it out, and takes one look at the dog, who stares right back. Then, much to Geralt’s concern, given this is a sheer and alarming display of utter lunacy, he says, “He can stay.” 

Jaskier squeals happily, and ruffles Menace’s fur with excitement. “But,” Vesemir adds, “he will be your responsibility, and yours alone, bard. I’m sure Geralt has already explained the perils of having such a creature roaming around our halls, but I trust you to make a decision that will benefit us all. I must admit, they are quite proficient at keeping the grounds clean. However,” he spreads his hands, “one misstep and he’s out. I don’t want trouble under my roof.”

“Of course,” Jaskier nods in earnest. “I understand. I would not want to cause any inconveniences.” 

“Hmm. I’m sure you will be kept in line,” Vesemir says, and leans down a little, “won’t you, Menace?”

The dog barks, delighted. Geralt sighs and stares at the mutt, who, predictably, stares right back, the smug smile now grown teasing.

It’s going to be a long winter. 

  
  


§

  
  


The dog follows Jaskier around the keep all day long. He’s there when he feeds the horses —Roach, the damn traitor, _doesn’t_ trample him— and he’s there when Jaskier moves down to tend to Vesemir’s vegetables, sniffing around the paprika and almost stealing some baby carrots. Geralt watches as Jaskier talks to the dog and gives him a tour of the courtyard, pointing out things that make him laugh and adding a bit of embellishment when he refers to the keep. He can’t help but smile at the earnest manner in which Jaskier presents the grounds to the dog.

“You’re in it good,” Eskel calls from behind him on the roof, where they’re repairing the structure, and Geralt can hear the smug smile on his voice. 

Geralt shakes his head and inspects a nail far too closely. “Don’t know what you mean.”

“Come on, Wolf,” Eskel says as he steps into his space, hammer in hand. “I’ve seen the way you look at him since you got here— hell, who knows how long you’ve been looking at him like that.”

Geralt huffs. “Like what?”

“Like he’s brought you the moon and the stars and got Roach new shoes, too,” Eskel says, exasperated. “Do you plan on telling him?”

There’s nothing for it, Geralt knows — his brother’s too damn perceptive and he’s apparently not been as subtle as he would have wanted to, acting like a lovesick fool all over the keep.

“Have been thinking about it for a while,” he admits sheepishly. “To tell him. Here. Since he agreed to come.”

Eskel hums. When Geralt says nothing, he presses on. “So?”

“I don’t know.” Geralt hits the nail hard on the head, then grabs a new one from the toolbox. 

“I’m not an expert,” Eskel says, and Geralt snorts, earning a slap to the head. “ _Shut up_ — I’m not an expert, but from the looks of it, he’s got it pretty bad, too.”

“Hmm.”

Eskel clicks his tongue. “Come on, I know you agree. Do you think he would’ve come here, to a freezing keep in the middle of fucking nowhere, for, what— the views? The story? I think you and I both know he stopped trailing after you solely for the adventure a long time ago.”

Geralt inhales sharply and looks around the courtyard until he finds them. Jaskier’s crouching on the stone ground, a stick in his hands, and Menace is playfully bowing, waiting for a command. Jaskier throws the stick, and quick as lightning, the dog runs after it and catches it mid-air. The laugh it gets out of the bard rings in his ears, pleasant and easy and good. 

Jaskier is _good_ — he’s thoughtful and bright and so, so caring, so attentive to everyone’s feelings and so unapologetically _kind_ , it makes Geralt’s heart ache to think about it. He makes his life so much easier, brings him comfort when there is pain and happiness to the dull days. The bard wears his heart on his sleeve, sometimes to his detriment; no matter what he does, he makes sure to pour all of himself in it, be it singing or flirting or offering comfort, he leaves no place for doubts or second-guessing. He just _is_. And Geralt wants. 

“You should tell him,” Eskel says quietly. “There might be more in it than you know.” 

Geralt fiddles with the chain around his neck. “He doesn’t like me.”

Eskel groans. “Geralt, will you get it in that damned thick head of yours for once? Jaskier—”

“The dog.”

“Pardon?”

Geralt sighs. “The dog. He doesn’t like me.”

Eskel cocks an eyebrow and tilts his head, a puzzling look in his eyes. “The dog doesn’t like you.” 

“Hmm,” Geralt nods. Another nail goes down.

Everything’s still for a moment, and then the rich, deep sound of Eskel’s laughter fills the air. His shoulders are shaking and he’s stopped working altogether, instead laughing at Geralt’s misfortune. He tries to stop and catch his breath, and after a few tries, he manages. 

“Sorry,” he chokes out, a grin twisting his scar. “Sorry. Oh, that’s brilliant.”

Geralt’s a Witcher. He most definitely does not pout. “What.” 

“You. Being jealous. Of a dog.” Eskel’s eyes are shining with mirth, and Geralt briefly entertains the thought of throwing his brother off the roof.

He turns his back on him instead, aware of the way warmth has made its way to his cheeks, and looks around for the hammer that he knows is sitting in his back pocket. “‘M not jealous. It’s a dog.”

Eskel huffs a laugh. “Oh, it’s a dog, is it? It doesn’t bother you at all that it’s him probably sleeping on Jaskier’s bed and getting kisses and pets all day long, then?”

Geralt grits his teeth. “No. Jaskier can do whatever he wants.”

“Hmm. Here,” Eskel grabs the hammer sticking out of Geralt’s pocket and hands it to him with a knowing smirk on his face, his shoulder pointing to where Jaskier and Menace sit on the grass. “Eyes on the prize, Wolf, don’t want to have to stitch your hand back together.”

Geralt sighs. The nail slides perfectly in place.

  
  


§

  
  


The east wing is usually quiet — most of the rooms belonged to people who no longer roam the halls, who’d been witness to the worst of the sacking. Only a handful of chambers remain upright and clean enough to use, since Vesemir insists on keeping them neat and tidy even if their purpose has been redirected. Out of respect, or remembrance, or warning, the wolves aren’t sure.

Geralt moves along the hallway, sunlight coming in through the tall glass windows and painting the grey walls in a golden tint, the mid-afternoon sun not beginning to set just yet. He passes through a few of the rooms, letting his eyes roam over the abandoned furniture and the dust-stained mirrors. There’s a soft sound coming from the crafts room, a gentle lullaby that carries through the hall and washes over him with familiarity. For a long time, longer than the Witchers can probably remember, the keep had been engulfed in a deafening silence; nothing but the sound of polished swords clashing against one another, the howling winds and winter downpours against the roofs. There were no more gut-wrenching screams of pain coming from the basements, either, the fortress enveloped in forced solitude, hidden away from the prying eyes and greedy hands of the world. 

Now, though, as Geralt’s footfalls echo down the hallway, he smiles at the warmth the bard’s voice splays over his chest. It’s a light thing, a hushed murmur of pirates and sirens and a ship lost at sea, of a treasure that didn’t want to be found. An old ballad, one Geralt hadn’t paid much attention to, but one that slowly makes sense now — it’s about the true treasure that had been hidden all along, the one worth finding. Love. 

He pushes the door to the room open with his palm, gentle and slow, as not to startle Jaskier. He’s greeted by a puzzling sight: the bard, sitting cross-legged on the floor, furs and pelts around him as he stitches something together. Luckily, his hellhound is nowhere to be found.

“Geralt,” he says, his voice still carrying that cadenced lilt. “You found me.”

His hair a tousled mess, brown curls dusted with gold as light filters through the windows, a pink shade on his cheeks. A faint smell of blood is in the air; no matter how many times he’s fixed his clothes or patched Geralt up, the bard still pricks his fingers whenever he’s around needles. 

“Hmm,” Geralt agrees, and moves to sit on the windowsill. “What are you making?”

The grin on Jaskier’s face is equal parts delighted and mischievous. He’s beautiful. “I’m making Menace a bed!” 

Oh, right. The dog. “A bed?”

Jaskier sets the needle down for a moment, running his fingers through a soft, velvet-like fabric. “Well, Vesemir didn’t want him sleeping in my bed, which I understand— the little shit sheds these big clumps of fur and they’re laying all over the floor of my room.”

Geralt smirks. That sounds about right. 

“Anyway,” Jaskier clicks his tongue and brushes his hair back, “since he can’t sleep on my bed, I figured he should still be comfortable. Vesemir showed me a chest full of furs and told me to take what I needed, so here I am.” 

He goes back to his needlework, and Geralt shakes his head. “Why can’t he sleep outside?”

“Mm?” Jaskier furrows his brow. “Who? Vesemir?”

Geralt snorts. “No, Jask. The dog.” 

“Oh. It’s just awfully cold out, Geralt, I’m afraid he’ll freeze to death.”

“His coat is three times thicker than Roach’s. He’s a mountain dog. They’re used to this kind of weather.”

Jaskier clicks his tongue, eyes focused on the task at hand. “Still. He’s not alone anymore. He’s part of our pack now.”

Geralt can’t help but smile at that, the way it rolls off his tongue without a second though, his voice unwavering. _Our pack_. 

“Besides,” he adds, holding the needle like it’s a pen and he’s in the middle of one of his musings, “jerky and scratches behind the ears are not enough. He should know he’s loved.”

The light is hitting Jaskier in all the right places, a golden halo around his head and the soft lines of his face darkened by his own shadow. He doesn’t look angelic, no — it’s something much more raw and pure, like he has risen from the earth and brought life to everything around him. His eyes are light green in the afternoon sun. Geralt wants to look away. 

“Yes,” he says instead. “He should.” 

  
  


§

  
  


The great hall is widely illuminated by the fire roaring in the hearth, the furs and pelts draped over the chairs glowing bronze, looking as inviting as they’ve ever been. Vesemir and Jaskier are sitting across from each other, warm mugs of tea in their hands, as their conversation fluctuates comfortably. Geralt is busy with Eskel in the kitchen, preparing the vegetables for dinner, having a talk of their own. 

The gates swing open with a strenuous sound, a soaked and snow-covered Lambert stepping in. His hair is plastered to his forehead, droplets running down his scowl. He slowly takes off his drenched furs and leathers, carelessly laying them on the floor as he makes his way to the hearth, its flames almost beckoning him close. 

He’s almost reached it when suddenly he’s toppled down onto the ground, Menace pressing his paws into Lambert’s chest and barking playfully, lapping at his face with unbidden joy, not seeming to care for the way Lambert’s wearing the grime and mud of the entire valley on himself. 

“What—mmpf” He manages before Menace nuzzles his nose into Lambert’s mouth. “Who is this?” He sniffs the air, his hands petting Menace’s fur. “Eskel? Is this you? Have you managed to get yourself cursed _again_?” 

“You’re not that lucky,” Eskel calls from the kitchen. 

Jaskier is up on his feet almost instantly, setting his mug aside and staring at the dog with narrowed eyes. His voice is suddenly strong and thunderous, “Menace. _Komm_.”

Lambert watches as the dog pulls his ears back and goes straight to Jaskier’s feet, where he stays until he is commanded to sit.

“Lambert,” Vesemir nods at him, breaking the moment. “It’s good to see you.” 

“Good to be here. Finally.” Lambert arches his brow. “So, who’s this again?” He gestures in Jaskier’s direction.

Jaskier smiles brightly and bows slightly. “I’m Jaskier, bard extraordinaire and dog trainer, at your—”

“Yeah, no, I know who you are, Gods know Geralt hasn’t shut up about you for _years_ —”

“Lambert,” warns Geralt from the kitchen, the sound of his knife slicing the air. 

“What is it, pretty boy? Just tellin’ it like it is. Come here and growl at me in my face instead of eavesdropping like some chatty milkmaid.”

“Missed me that much?” 

“Ugh.” Lambert rolls his eyes, leaning back on his elbows and letting the fire warm his body. “Whatever. I meant the beast.” 

“Oh,” Jaskier says. “He’s my companion for the winter! A local, actually. His name is Menace.”

Lambert’s grin is wicked. “You adopted a wild dog.” 

“I did,” Jaskier says proudly. 

“Huh.” Lambert turns his head. “Geralt! What’s it feel having a dog replace you?”

Geralt’s growl is loud and clear.

“Oh, no, I haven’t replaced him!” Jaskier explains with a tiny frown. “He’s the White Wolf, Menace is the, the— the Brown Dog. They’re different, you see. On many levels.”

“Thanks, Jaskier,” Geralt deadpans.

After dinner, when they’re mostly caught-up and they’re busy swapping tales, Geralt watches as the dog sleeps by Jaskier’s feet. The bard is curled up on his seat, a woolen blanket draped over him, his mug of ale resting on his hand. His hair is mussed and his cheeks are pink from laughter and the alcohol, a permanent grin on his face as the Witchers around him share their tales. 

Eskel finishes a story of a forktail and there’s a lull in the conversation, his brothers quietly sipping at their tankards. He’s grateful for another year, for another opportunity to hug them close and feel their slow heartbeats in unison, at least for a while. He counts each one.

“So,” Lambert rumbles after a moment, his voice quiet in a way it usually isn’t. “I met a Witcher on the Path this year.”

Geralt and Eskel share a look. “Oh,” Eskel says. “Who was it?”

Lambert looks down at his mug, his fingers tapping on it lightly. “He’s, uh— his name is Aiden. ‘S around my age. He’s a Cat.”

Something twists in Geralt’s gut. “Lambert—”

“I know.” Lambert shifts in his seat, staring at him straight in the eye, gold melting into bronze. “I know Cats are dangerous, and unreliable, and unhinged, and— just, everything we’ve ever been told. I know.”

He holds Geralt’s gaze until Eskel clears his throat. “And what’s he like, this Aiden?”

Lambert’s gaze softens for a second, a small smile curling on his lips, one that’s neither sarcastic or smug. It’s vulnerable. “He’s… good. He’s noble and very straightforward. He’s got his own opinions, which— sometimes he’s just plain stupid, but he’s so fucking brave it’s hard to argue with his logic.” 

“You’ve shared contracts?”

“Yeah.” Lambert takes a sip of ale. “We’ve run into each other a couple times.”

Eskel lays back on his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. “That’s good.” 

“Hmm.” 

Geralt knows Lambert. He’s known him since he was a scrawny, rage-filled kid, ever since Vesemir showed up with him at Kaer Morhen. He knows him so well, he doesn’t need to read between the lines. 

“I’m glad,” he says after a while, and he means it. “I’m glad you found him.” Jaskier’s been silent the whole time, presumably asleep, but when he turns to face him, the bard is looking at him intently, something in his eyes he can’t quite discern. “It can get lonely.”

Lambert smiles, almost like he’s embarrassed to. “Yeah.”

Geralt feels a sudden surge of pride; Lambert’s always been very vocal about unimportant things, always keen on arguing over nothing, but very overprotective of his own feelings, keeping them hidden away; if they weren’t there for him to share, no one could ever disapprove. For a long time, he’d allowed himself to believe the idea that Witchers don’t feel, that it’s just another trait the Trials took care of — wishful thinking, Geralt had called it, that they could exist in a world as machines, as mere instruments, means to an end. It’s good to see him open up, talk about what truly matters, even if Geralt can’t bring himself to do it. 

They’re silent for a moment, until Jaskier yawns and Menace stirs under him. “It’s been lovely meeting you, Lambert, truly,” he says, pulling to his feet. “And I’m sure you have a lot more stories which I cannot wait to hear, but I’m dead on my feet right now.” 

“Go, bardling,” Eskel says softly.

“Goodnight.”

The Witchers echo their goodnights, and watch as both bard and dog move down the hall. It’s an endearing sight: Jaskier, his blanket draped over his shoulders like a cape, and Menace at his side, tail swinging as they head to their room. 

“You must be either insane,” Lambert says when they’re gone, “or I have greatly underestimated this besotted state of yours, if you’re letting that hound stick around.”

Geralt buries his face in his hands and groans. “Don’t even mention it.”

  
  


§

  
  


Geralt is not jealous of a dog. He’s not. He’s a Witcher, he’d slain beasts left and right blindfolded long before Jaskier came into his life. He’s a Witcher, he’s survived more battles than he can count, has seen empires rise and fall in the blink of an eye. He’s traveled the Continent, he’s seen the world. 

He is _not_ jealous of a dog.

Not even if said dog gets to follow Jaskier around all day, with not a care in the world. Not even if he gets pets and treats and gets called a _good boy_ every waking moment of his life, not even if he’s the first thing Jaskier sees when he wakes in the morning, and the last thing he sees when he tucks in for the night. Not even if the dog gets Jaskier to look at him like he’s the most precious thing that has ever graced the Earth, despite his floppy ears and mismatched eyes, slobbery tongue slipping out. 

Not even if everyone in his family seems to be head over heels for him — showering him with praise when the dog does something as basic as coming down the stairs without tripping, making him toys to play with and baking special treats just for him. Just for Menace, who’s apparently become the keep’s dog, if the way Vesemir eyes soften when the dog walks in is anything to go by.

It’s fine that Menace doesn’t seem to like him. It’s okay. Geralt’s used to repelling most creatures —humans and animals alike— and it comes as no surprise that the so-called dog doesn’t enjoy his company. The Witcher’s never been known to beg, and he certainly won’t start now. It’s alright.

Except it may not be, not really, because Jaskier gets worried when Menace starts acting up because of Geralt, his nose scrunching up in an adorable gesture and his scent souring, like he can’t seem to stand having the two of them in a room together. He hates that it’s him making the bard feel that way, that he’s causing his beloved dog to get his hackles up just by being near him. Since Menace is always, always by Jaskier’s side, Geralt’s been seeing less and less of him as the days go by, not wanting to intrude and make them both feel uncomfortable — which is both outrageous and ridiculous, that Geralt of Rivia, the mighty Witcher, would have to stay out of a _dog’s_ way at his own home. But for Jaskier’s sake, he will.

Which is why it takes him by surprise, when, on a particularly mild day, Lambert invites Jaskier to ride around the keep and show him the grounds, and he’s asked to watch the dog. Eskel and Vesemir had gone on a big hunt, the last one the weather would stand for, thus leaving him and Menace to their own devices.

“This’ll be the perfect opportunity, Geralt!” Jaskier had said with excitement, as he put on his boots and slid his woolen gloves on his hands. “You’ll both get to know each other better, sort your, your— things out, y’know? Find things you have in common, and whatnot. You’ll have fun, I promise!” 

That had been hours ago. Now, with Jaskier’s promise still ringing in his ears, Geralt crouches down next to Menace’s bed, holding raw meat in his hands. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, partly to ease the job, and partly because he wants to try, for Jaskier. “Hey there. Are you hungry?”

The dog lifts his head in evident superiority and gives the air a cautious sniff, his eyes never leaving Geralt’s. He raises a single ear and cocks his head in what Geralt hopes is curiosity, and not him measuring how long it would take him to digest an entire Witcher. 

“Uh.” He holds his hand up closer, at a safe distance, so Menace can explore at his own will, but without getting into biting-range. “It’s venison. It’s good. We had it last night, remember? I think Jaskier fed you some when he thought we weren’t looking.” He chuckles. “We all knew, though, but the others like you so much I think they’d let anything slide if it meant siding with you and annoying me.”

Menace seems to be done with his inspection, craning his neck in order to gently take a bite out of the meat. Geralt relaxes and sits on the floor next to him. He feels odd, talking to a dog who clearly doesn’t like him, but it helps to settle his nerves. He wants to make a good impression — and _Gods_ , isn’t that a ridiculous thought.

“Hmm. Jaskier isn’t coming back for a couple hours.” Menace takes another bite. “He said it’d do us good, you know, getting to know each other. I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

The dog swallows thickly, scratching his head with his leg. He looks up at Geralt expectantly, and the dangerous glint in his eyes that Geralt is so used to seeing directed at him has subsided, instead replaced by a placid, if cautious, lopsided gaze. 

“I called you a beast— among other things,” Geralt says, sounding almost apologetic. “I didn’t like the idea of you being here. At all. And you knew that.” He takes a piece of meat from his hand and hangs it over Menace’s head, making him reach for it. He does. “And then Vesemir almost took you into his arms, the old man. He’s got a soft spot for strays, you know.” The dog tilts his head, and Geralt almost, almost dares to call it cute. He ruffles the dog’s fur, and Menace doesn’t pull back. “I think I may, too.”

He feeds Menace the rest of the meat, inching closer and closer until he’s practically laying in the dog’s bed with him. Menace seems sleepy after his dinner, and something in Geralt’s heart melts when the dog rests his head on Geralt’s thigh. 

“The thing is,” Geralt starts, absentmindedly petting along Menace’s spine, “you have Jaskier’s undivided attention, you know. You’re very lucky. If he’s decided to keep you, it means he’s not letting go.”

Menace yawns, and Geralt takes his hand back, just in case. He thinks he’s on solid ground now, that the dog has dropped his guard and has finally given in. He thinks he may have, too.

“He’s like that, Jaskier. He cares so deeply and so strongly for everyone, but even so, he doesn’t stick around for long.” Menace looks up at him through half-lidded eyes, and pushes his back into Geralt’s hand. “He doesn’t like permanence. I think it bores him. He could have anything he wanted— could be playing his songs at the finest of courts with the finest company. He could have the world, if he wanted to.”

Geralt feels a low purr rumbling in Menace’s chest. The dog is soundly asleep, snuggled up to him. He did it — he cracked the code.

“He could have anything he wanted,” he repeats, mostly to himself now. “And yet he stays with me.”

Geralt frowns. Jaskier doesn’t like permanence, doesn’t care for stagnation — yet he’s stayed at the Witcher’s side for years. He claims he doesn’t like being kept, yet when the moment came for them to part their ways for the winter, Jaskier’s scent turned heavy with sorrow, usual lavender and honey smothered by sea salt and sour wine. There’s even a certain familiarity to their travels, an unspoken routine which, had Jaskier noticed it, would’ve had him running for the hills, away from the domesticity and ease of it all. 

It’s not that Jaskier’s unattached. It’s not a fear of compromise that keeps him away from betrothals and never returning to the same bed twice. It’s not a fear of heartbreak, either; he’s had his fair share of them over the years, with Geralt as his reluctant witnesses. It’s not lack of connection, or passion, or even love. 

It’s his freedom he isn’t willing to give up.

And yet he trails after Geralt, season after season, with a smile on his face and an easy yes on the tip of his tongue, because he’d never refuse the Witcher. He sleeps in the woods and eats half-cooked rabbit for dinner, walks for miles but still makes sure Roach gets a roof over her head. He turns away invitations from nobles and royalty, just to wait for Geralt with a hot bath and a warm meal.

He stays.

Geralt’s startled from his thoughts by Menace, whose legs are kicking and twitching, his tail thrashing wildly. The Witcher feels a fond smile tug at his lips, and he leans down and smooths a gentle hand over his fur. 

“Hey,” he whispers, the voice he saves for Roach coming out. “It’s fine. ‘T was a dream.”

Menace’s breathing evens out eventually, and he settles back into Geralt’s thigh. His legs are going numb, but he can’t find it in himself to push the dog away, so he leans back against the wall and lets his hands roam over Menace’s back. 

That’s how Lambert finds them, hours later — the dog fully on his lap and drooling a bit on his breeches as Geralt lays against the stone, his arms crossed over his chest. 

“Ah, aren’t you both just a sight for sore eyes,” he says, but there’s an edge of fondness to his teasing tone. “We’re on dinner duty, pretty boy. Come on.”

As Geralt stands and stretches his muscles, he catches Menace’s eye, before he goes to greet Jaskier. The dog is giving him a conspiratorial look, like whatever secret they’ve got going on between them, he’ll keep. Geralt nods.

“What was that about?” Lambert asks when he enters the kitchen, eyebrows raised. 

Geralt grabs a knife. “Nothing.”

“Yeah, sure. Five hours ago you couldn’t stand each other.”

“Hmm.” Geralt shrugs, a smile tugging at his lips. “Guess he came ‘round.”

“Huh.” Lambert stops for a second. “Guess he did.” 

  
  


§

  
  


As it turns out, Menace _can_ be a delight. When he wants to. Under very specific circumstances. 

He still growls at Geralt from behind when the Witcher’s not looking —though it’s now more playful than anything else— and his hackles still rise at any sudden movement in Jaskier’s direction, but, as the days grow colder and the nights longer, Menace and Geralt find themselves sharing some small rituals. 

The dog barks Geralt hello every morning, as soon as he and Jaskier have come down from their room, and juts his head out for Geralt to pet him exactly twice, then goes merrily on his way to help Eskel with the chickens. Every once in a while, when the weather is atrocious and Geralt can’t work outside, he finds himself in the library, a book between his hands and Menace snoring at his feet. Sometimes, if Geralt’s late for supper after a particularly good soak in his bath, Menace will come looking for him, following his scent until he finds him comfortably dozing in the tub. Those are Geralt’s favorite; the moments when Menace lets his wild run free and jumps in the tub with him, utterly uncaring of the water splashing around and gleefully licking Geralt’s face. 

This newfound companionship brings him closer to Jaskier in a way he hadn’t expected. He knew the dog was important to him, but never to what extent; rainy afternoons by the hearth and endless conversations at dawn show him a side of Jaskier he had never seen. Sure, the bard can’t seem to function without talking his way through tasks, but there is rarely any bit of vulnerability on his voice as he rambles on. He’s all for love and yearning for tenderness, but discussing such vulnerable topics doesn’t mean he allows that rawness to actually show — he often hides what he truly desires behind pretty words and mindless chatter. 

Geralt keeps learning. He listens to the way Jaskier’s voice goes quiet as he speaks of his family and his role in it; places a comforting hand on his shoulder when the bard reminisces of old loves and opportunities not taken. He keeps learning to read the signs, learns every twitch and tell that Jaskier is willing to share with him. 

He also has time to think. Time seems to stretch into a thin but infinite line at Kaer Morhen — something about the white coat that almost perpetually covers the grounds and the way the light almost never shifts allowing Geralt to feel like maybe winter could go on forever, if he let it. He thinks of warm hands on cold nights, gentle kisses and the softest of touches. 

Most of all, he thinks about love. 

It’s funny, the way things turn out — the way Jaskier’s managed to drip into the cracked bits of his soul and slowly fill them with honey-like gold, pulling it back together, piece by piece. The way his heart beats in his chest, stronger and with more purpose than ever, after so many years of deep aches, of sizzling pain and hopeless thoughts.

The way he makes Geralt want to be alive. 

It’s an achingly cold morning when it finally stops snowing. Geralt knows it’s just a momentary pause and it will come back in full force over the next few days, but the way Jaskier’s eyes light up when he realizes he can _finally_ roam around the grounds without worrying about getting buried in snow is enough to keep his mouth shut and his heart content. 

“I’ve never seen so much snow in my life,” Jaskier says thoughtfully, staring out of the frosted window, Menace sitting right beside him. “I can’t believe it’s just been falling for weeks, and now it’s just… stopped. No warning at all.”

Geralt takes a spoonful of kasha and gives him a small smile. “That’s the way nature works. Predictable in its unpredictability.”

“I’ll make a poet out of you, yet,” Jaskier says with a grin, his eyes still fixed on the snow-covered courtyard.

Geralt stirs the food in his bowl. They’re alone this morning, the others already tending to their chores. The light reflecting off the snow and pouring in through the window washes over Jaskier, the soft features of his face melting into porcelain, the faintest hint of a blush warming his cheeks. He almost looks like a child who’s wrapped around in his favorite blanket —the one that used to hang over Geralt’s bed— watching the great outdoors, excited to finally be able to go out and play. 

Geralt’s heart beats a fraction of a second faster. 

“We could go for a walk after breakfast,” Geralt suggests quietly. “I’m not working until noon.” 

“That’d be lovely.” Jaskier takes his eyes off the window and shoots Geralt the brightest of smiles, his teeth glinting white. “Can Menace come, too?”

“Of course he can.”

“I knew it!” Jaskier wraps his left arm over Menace’s back, pulling him into a tight hug. “I knew you’d be the best of friends in no time, I could _smell_ it.”

“Don’t get too excited. We’re acquaintances at best.”

Jaskier tsks, pressing a kiss to the spot between Menace’s eyes, where his fur is soft and brown melts into white. The dog tries to lick back at him. “My words exactly.” 

As soon as they finish breakfast, Jaskier starts slicing his apple into pieces for Menace like he always does, even though the dog would much rather chew on a bone. Geralt watches as he lines up the pieces on his plate, minding the seeds and the stem — but then, instead of turning to Menace, he holds out a slice out for Geralt, a wordless invitation.

He takes it.

The apple belongs to their barrel in the pantry, and he’s had many of them before, but this one tastes sweeter, somehow. They each eat one slice at a time in silence, and Geralt’s skin tingles when their hands brush as they both reach for the last piece. He feeds it to Menace with a rueful smile. When the apple is gone, Jaskier pockets the seeds for Vesemir to store them later, and looks at Geralt with soft eyes and a shy grin. 

Geralt clears his throat. “Ready?”

Jaskier nods. He watches as the bard wraps his blue scarf tightly around his neck and then the matching navy woolen cloak they’d gotten for him at the market in Ard Carraigh. A soft-looking hat covers his hair, outgrown and curling around his ears, and at last he pulls on his gloves. When his small ritual is done, he turns around, an adorable frown on his face. 

“Aren’t you going to get dressed?” He asks, and Geralt slips out of his trance and starts lacing his boots. “You can call Witcher on whatever you like, but it’s cold as balls, and I’m not risking you losing any of your limbs due to stubborness. It would be awfully dramatic of you. That’s _my_ job.”

Geralt rolls his eyes and opens the door. “After you.”

“Hmm.” Jaskier peeks at the white ground. “Menace!” The dog is on his heel in a second. “We’re going! Come on.”

The three of them make their way across the courtyard, snow covering their boots and Menace’s paws — the dog looks imposing, Geralt must admit, his brown fur thick and dotted with snow, his gaze piercing and stronger than he’s ever seen it. That thought lasts only a second, though, since it’s then that Menace decides to sprint at full speed and crash into a pile of snow that had gathered the previous night, his ears peeking out. 

“You’re incorrigible,” Jaskier says when the dog hops out of the snow and joins them again. “An incorrigible little man. The silliest dog in the whole valley— isn’t that right?” Menace barks. “You’re the prettiest, silliest, most incorrigible little bear in the whole world!” 

Geralt watches them with a soft smile, the way Jaskier kneels in the snow and gathers Menace’s face in his hands with the utmost care and the most adoring look in his eyes. The dog barks and shuffles and sends snow and drool flying everywhere, and Jaskier laughs, and it’s perfect. 

“Jask,” Geralt rasps, because he can’t help it. 

Jaskier stands up, shaking snow off his knees. “Yeah?”

His hair is peeking out of his hat, the brown curls sweeping over his eyes, bluer than ever under the clear sky. Vesemir keeps a few roses in his garden every year, tending to them with reverence, but even they would pale in comparison to the blush that spreads over Jaskier’s cheeks, soft and warm and happy. Geralt swallows. He opens his mouth. He closes it. He opens it again.

It seemed easier in his head, all the words very clearly laid out. He looks at Jaskier, at his expectant gaze. Then his eyes fall on Menace. 

“Menace,” he calls, and the dog wags his tail happily. He’s glad to have him on his side. Then, looking intently into his eyes, he says, “You know, we’ve talked a lot, you and I— well, mostly me, but— you know. And yet I’ve never told you about the time Jaskier and I first met.”

Geralt can feel Jaskier’s gaze on him, but he doesn’t dare look, not yet. Instead, he crouches down next to the dog, gently scratching behind his ears. 

“Roach and I had been traveling for a while. There were no contracts to take— no one wanted Witchers around,” he tells the dog. “We ended up in this shitty hamlet. Posada.”

Geralt looks up at the sky, where tiny snowflakes are slowly falling to the ground, some melting on the branches of the pine trees that surround them. He clears his throat.

“I was drinking some ale— though it was probably more water than alcohol, you know how it is.” Menace tilts his head, his ear flopping. “Yeah, like that time in Redania, remember? Anyway, I was drinking, and there was this sound.” Geralt shifts his weight. “Beautiful and so enthralling, for a second I feared I’d fallen into a sea full of sirens.”

Jaskier makes a quiet noise of surprise next to him, and Geralt can feel the way his scent has gone sweet with pride. There’s something else, too, something gentler but still present that he can’t quite decipher. 

“And then,” he continues, “I looked up from my tankard and there was this man standing in front of me.” He chuckles. “Saying something about how there was bread in his pants— I didn’t really catch that. He didn’t smell like fear. Not for one moment— not even when he realized I was a Witcher.” 

Menace barks at him, impatient, and Geralt clicks his tongue. “I know, I know— I’m almost done. He started following me, you see. Going where I went, writing songs and making up stories so people would see me through different eyes. Through his.” 

And now he looks up, at the blue sky and the blue of Jaskier’s eyes, wet and shiny with unshed tears. He’s standing on the snow, frozen, his hand over his mouth. 

“You looked at me,” Geralt says, and stands up. Menace runs free, finally left unattended, and Jaskier lets out a small laugh. “And chose to _see_ me. Not what people said, not the tales they spread. Me.”

Jaskier sniffs, and Geralt steps closer into his warmth.

“And now I see you,” he says, a breath away. “Jaskier— I’ve been so blind.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispers, a broken sound, his gloved hands wrapping around Geralt’s like he’ll collapse without them. 

“I love you,” Geralt murmurs, low and soft, only for them to hear. “I’ve loved you for so long, and I didn’t even know.”

“Are you sure? Geralt, you don’t need to—”

“I am,” he says, and he means it. Oh, how much he means it. “It’s the only thing I’ve ever been sure of. You.”

Warmth wraps around Geralt like a blanket as Jaskier breaks the distance between them and kisses him. It’s sweet — sweet and happy and loving and a little bit messy, since they’re too busy trying to feel as much of each other as they possibly can, and it’s perfect. 

They break apart and Jaskier doesn’t bolt, doesn’t run for the hills at the thought of loving a Witcher — he presses his forehead against Geralt’s, instead, their breaths intermingling and small snowflakes falling around them. It feels ridiculously similar to one of Jaskier’s love songs, and the bard seems to read his mind.

“This feels like a song,” he whispers against Geralt’s lips, and he sounds giddy. “The sun is shining, snow is falling, and you— you love me.”

“I do.”

Jaskier presses a kiss to his lips, short and chaste. Then his nose, his brow, the faint scar over his right eyebrow and the dimple on his chin. Every place his lips touch feels like it’s been struck by lightning, the revelation intoxicating and so, so good.

Jaskier laughs, and it’s the most beautiful sound in the world. “Wanna know a secret?”

Geralt kisses him before answering. “What?”

Jaskier smiles against his lips. “I love you too.”

They stay in each other’s arms —Geralt’s arms circling Jaskier’s narrow waist, their knees touching, Jaskier’s hat tickling Geralt’s nose— until they’re forced to break apart, a very offended and demanding Menace barking at them. 

“What is it?” Jaskier says, his voice bouncy and ridiculous, like it is whenever his dog is around. “What is it, little Menace? Are you in dire need of attention? Are you jealous, my baby bear?”

Menace and Geralt share a look. 

“Are you _both_ jealous?” Jaskier says, like it’s scandalous and not a totally reasonable reaction on both their ends. “Is this why you didn’t— Melitele preserve me, I’m surrounded by idi—”

He’s cut off by both Geralt and Menace pouncing on him, making him fall backward into the snow with half a ton of Witcher and dog on his lap. Menace licks at Jaskier’s face, and Geralt can feel a smug smile curling on his lips. 

“What were you saying?”

Jaskier smiles, his eyes crinkling. “Nothing, dear.”  
  


§

  
  


Geralt is used to waking up with the sun. He has, for as long as he can remember, risen with the first streams of light, when the birds are only just adjusting their feathers and the creeks smoothing their course. It’s what he’s used to, and he doesn’t mind — waking up early has been, for many decades, one of the only choices he ever got to make. Everything in his life has always been plagued by uncertainty, with unpredictability, but feeling the gentle warmth of the sun on his face and allowing himself to wake up, no matter how broken the world, no matter how broken the morning, is a small blessing in itself. 

This particular morning, though, he finds himself scrunching up his nose and squinting at the offending sunlight pouring in, burying himself under the blankets. It may have to do with the body he’s got wrapped around him like a vine, long legs entangled in his and firm arms covered in soft hair gently holding him in place. Maybe, he thinks, it’s got to do with the way he can feel his skin glow wherever it meets the bard’s, his cheek against Jaskier’s chest, their fingers resting on his hip, his ankles resting over Jaskier’s legs. Every point of contact feels like a revolution, like the answer to a question he didn’t even think to ask. He snuggles closer, a bit higher, nosing the spot right under Jaskier’s ear, where his jaw turns soft and his hair starts curling, where his scent is stronger and more telling — where Geralt can feel his heartbeat as if he were inside his chest, curled up next to it. 

Somewhat begrudgingly, Geralt opens his eyes. The room —Jaskier’s, but quickly becoming theirs— is bathed in bronze light. It looks soft, softer than Kaer Morhen’s ever been, and Geralt decides he likes it that way. Turning his head just the slightest bit, he watches Jaskier’s face, the way his brow is furrowed in concentration and the tiny puffs of breath that escape his mouth, his chest rising and falling in time. He’s an ethereal sight, drool and stubble included. 

There’s a shift in the weight of the mattress, and Geralt rolls his eyes. The dog’s bed remains unused, yet the blankets are dusted with his fur; he pats the empty space on the bed next to him nonetheless. Menace snuggles close to him, kicking the blankets and kneading them for a second before settling with his head on Geralt’s chest. His fur is ruffled with sleep —he must have just woken up as well— and his eyes aren’t wide open as per usual, unfocused and half-lidded instead. Geralt pets him gently, trying not to wake Jaskier. Of course, because he hasn’t been subtle a day in his life, he fails.

“Morning,” he rumbles, his voice thick and heavy with sleep. He doesn’t attempt to move, though, just presses himself against Geralt’s side and clings to him in an attempt to keep chasing his dreams. 

Menace perks up at his voice, his ears pointing at the ceiling, but he’s too sleepy to try and kiss Jaskier good morning. It doesn’t stop Geralt, though. 

“Good morning,” he whispers against Jaskier’s curls, breathing him in. He smells of pine and lavender these days, a strong scent that Geralt would describe as _wet dog_ always present, as well. Geralt presses soft kisses on his warm skin, leaving a trail of them from the bard’s temple to the hollow of his throat, ignoring Jaskier’s half-hearted protests. It’s early, he knows, but he’s awake — and they have a lot of lost time to make up for. 

“It’s not lost time,” Jaskier had told him the day before, when Geralt felt his guilt and regret creeping in, after they walked into the keep hand in hand, much to Eskel’s amusement, Lambert’s surprise, and Vesemir’s approval. He had kissed Geralt’s knuckles reverently, like no one ever before. “We are exactly where we’re meant to. Everything led up to this.”

It’s not lost time, but Geralt would still like to get started right away. He kisses him light and sweet, determined to leave every inch of skin accounted for. It makes Jaskier giggle.

“It tickles,” he says between kisses, “your hair.”

Geralt reaches up and ties his hair on itself, a lazy bun that will definitely come off later, making Jaskier laugh again and again. This time, Jaskier turns his face up and blinks at him. Geralt gets the hint and kisses him on the mouth, slow and loving. It’s bliss.

“I love you,” he tells Jaskier, just because he can. “I woke up and thought of you, first thing.”

“Even before Roach?” Jaskier says, teasing. “What did you think of?”

“Just you. It was vague, but I definitely thought of how lucky I am.” 

“You, Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier starts and playfully swats at his chest, “are being _wonderfully_ sappy right now. I’m afraid if you don’t stop such cruel ministrations, I shall melt into a puddle and never regain my youthful form.”

“That’s rather unfortunate,” Geralt observes. “I had cleared the whole day just to be sappy and lie in bed with you.” He makes an attempt to get up, even though Menace is happily snoring on his chest. “Should go tell Vesemir I’ll be able to work, after all.”

“Well,” Jaskier considers, his grip on Geralt’s arm growing tighter. A trap. “It would be terribly impolite of me to make you... fix the walls, or something equally manly, whileI lie under the blanket fort _I_ have cleared the day to build. I guess I shall accept my fate and die at the sword of your unrelenting sweetness, Witcher.”

Geralt smiles and settles against the pillows. “Hmm.” 

“Now that’s more like you.” 

In lieu of a response, Geralt nuzzles his nose against Jaskier’s neck, tickling him again — Gods, he’d do it all day long, if it meant hearing his laughter over and over again. Next to him, Menace stirs awake, and after some shuffling and kicking, he’s on the floor, alternating between staring at the door and at Geralt with a pleading gaze. 

“Bard,” he says, because Jaskier’s laid back down again, and he’s been silent a while, and if he thinks Geralt’s getting up and letting the dog out to pee, he’s out of his godsdamned mind. “Bard.”

Silence.

“Jaskier.”

Nothing.

“Love of my life.”

A blue eye cracks open. “You called, dear heart?”

Geralt bites back a smile. “Your dog wants to get out.”

“That’s nice.”

“I’m not getting up.”

Jaskier frowns, eyes closer. “He’s yours, too.”

“No proof of purchase. No birth certificate. He’s all yours.”

Jaskier peels himself off Geralt’s chest, and leans on his elbows. His eyes keep closing against his will. “Remember how you said you loved me?” 

“I do.” Jaskier beams. “Just not enough to get up.”

Jaskier’s eyes spring open, and he gasps, outraged. “Horrible, unyielding Witcher. How could you stand by and watch a poor creature like baby Menace suffer, and do _nothing_?” Very, very reluctantly, and probably more to prove a point than to actually help the dog, Jaskier gets to his feet and opens the door for him. He doesn’t come back to the bed, instead staring Geralt down from the middle of the room. “I am very disappointed in you.”

“Oh.” Geralt brings the covers up. “Will you be able to forgive me?”

“Hmm,” Jaskier hums thoughtfully. “It’ll cost you. I expect kisses. Cuddles. Attention.”

“Such a hardship,” Geralt laments, lifting the blankets in invitation. “May I start immediately, Master Bard?”

Jaskier’s grin is wide. It puts the sun to shame.

“You may,” he concedes, sinking into the bed. 

“Any suggestions?” 

“Like all good things,” he tells Geralt, “you should start with a kiss.”

He does. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! find me on [tumblr](http://julek.tumblr.com/).


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